


The Family Share

by tenderly_wicked



Series: Dark!John [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Plug, Angst, Dubious Consent, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Leather, M/M, Manipulation, Mindfuck, Multi, Past Torture, Whipping, dark!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 19:49:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6485281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dark!John takes Sherlock to the Diogenes Club. At night, private parties are often held there. Parties for indecently wealthy men who enjoy particular kinds of entertainment. “They’re going to like you,” John says, and that sounds pretty ominous.</p><p>You don’t need to read the previous fics in the series, they are all stand-alone stories, but hey, there’s more kinky stuff!</p><p>WARNING! This story is Season 3 compliant, so if you can't stand any mentions of Mary, maybe it's better to read my other dark!John fics: <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/6686149">One for All</a> and <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/7059547">Aftershocks</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Family Share

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by the lovely [SwissMiss](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SwissMiss/pseuds/SwissMiss). Thanks again for help :)

In the taxi, Sherlock keeps fidgeting, and John is unable to suppress a smirk. He looks through the side window at the darkening streets, pretending to pay no attention to his writhing, but he knows the reason for it all too well. It’s not only about uneasiness, though Sherlock has every right to be apprehensive; it’s more about the huge butt plug that uncomfortably distends Sherlock’s well-ploughed and well-whipped arse, stretching the reddened skin around his anus.

What clearly troubles Sherlock the most is that the plug constantly rubs against his oversensitized sweet spot as he squirms in a futile hope to get just slightly more comfortable. He bites his lower lip and steals quick, panicked glances at John. Maybe he’s not entirely past caring that the driver—or anyone else in the street when they leave the cab—might see the impressive bulge of his erection. The humiliation must be torturous. But so is the intention. John had made Sherlock wear _very_ tight jeans to increase the effect. The dark plum-coloured shirt is obscenely tight too. Sherlock’s nipples perk through the fabric, clearly visible. He looks deliciously debauched.

Unlike Sherlock, John is dressed in a suit. Maybe not as posh as Sherlock’s usual outfits, but quite presentable. Adequate for the place they're going.

The taxi stops on a narrow street with a row of elegant whitewashed buildings on one side and a private garden behind a wrought-iron fence on the other. John pays and ushers Sherlock out. As the car drives away, Sherlock, unusually hesitant, lingers on the pavement by the porch. There’s a brass plaque by the entrance declaring the venue to be “The Diogenes Club”.

“John—” Sherlock begins.

John tuts. “No, Sherlock. No. I’ve been too indulgent with you. I know you won’t like it, but you need a lesson. Come on.”

He nudges Sherlock up the stairs, a duffle bag in one hand and the other firmly cupping the underside of Sherlock’s jeans-clad buttocks, pressing where the handle of the butt plug obscenely protrudes between them. It’s enough to make Sherlock comply.

The Diogenes Club is respectable and posh in an old-fashioned way, but there are rooms in the back of the house, soundproof and discreet, where private parties are held at night. Very special private parties. Top secret.

Those who frequent the club during the day enjoy relaxing in its quiet atmosphere of safety, undisturbed in their leisure. The rule of total silence applies to the night visitors too. Mostly, it’s the same people. Member type: old money. The Diogenes Club is a sanctuary for those who don’t want to rub shoulders with mere mortals and prefer exploring their proclivities in luxurious privacy.

“They’re going to like you,” John had said, well aware that it sounded pretty ominous.

Without asking anything, a dress-coated servant, wearing white gloves and soft white overshoes to muffle his footsteps, guides them from the reception through a dark-wood panelled hallway with taxidermy everywhere to a small private room—and leaves in absolute silence.

Unsurprisingly, Mycroft waits there, sitting in an enormous leather armchair in an immaculate three-piece suit with a double pocket watch chain. John can’t help but chuckle at the expression of mortified dismay on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock might claim that he doesn’t mind whatever people think of him, but it’s not entirely true. Or maybe he hadn’t meant situations like this.

Mycroft pours himself a drink from a crystal decanter on a small table by the armchair. “Hello, John.” John curtly nods in response. Sherlock scowls some more.

Mycroft looks Sherlock up and down, a glass in his hand. “I probably should be embarrassed over the state my brother is in, but I’m hardly surprised. He tends to choose provocative outfits even when he’s to visit Buckingham Palace. I’m afraid it’s something in the family line. So very like Uncle Rudy with his cross-dressing habit.”

Naturally, Sherlock froths at that. “Are you here just to humiliate me?” he spits out.

Mycroft chuckles a little. “Of course not, though it is by far the greater pleasure. I’m here to make sure you are comfortably settled, nice and discreet. You’re a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can’t afford a scandal.”

“It’s _my_ life,” Sherlock snarls. “Stop lecturing me.”

Mycroft sighs, theatrically. “Always so aggressive. You could be just a tiny bit grateful for my help. Regrettably, politeness has never been at the top of your priorities. John must appreciate your other…valuable qualities, having tolerated you for so long.”

Sherlock murmurs something under his breath. John suspects it’s a curse.

He knows something that Sherlock, too busy being ashamed of himself, doesn’t see. Mycroft might talk in a snide, condescending manner, but he’s really concerned about his brother. He isn’t happy with Sherlock’s current situation, his newly re-established arrangement with John, highly indecent in nature. But the alternative seems much more bleak. Sherlock on his own, left alone with his mind to race out of control, tearing itself to pieces, is a danger to himself, too prone to self-abuse. So Mycroft would rather leave his brother in John’s capable hands than let Sherlock overdose in some dirty back alley.

The only thing Mycroft can do to maintain the comforting illusion that he still has some control over Sherlock’s life, or what has become of it, is to protect Sherlock’s reputation. He agreed to allow John to bring Sherlock to the Diogenes Club because otherwise John could have chosen a less discreet place for what he had in mind. For John, Mycroft’s courtesy means resources he wouldn’t be able to afford otherwise. So it’s a mutually beneficial deal.

Mycroft takes the last sip from his glass. “I believe I’d rather leave you two now. Have fun.”

“Moron,” Sherlock mutters, audibly this time, when the heavy door closes behind his brother, and John gives Sherlock’s jeans-clad arse a light spank for his rudeness.

“Well, I think we both found that embarrassing, but back to business,” he says cheerfully. “Strip.”

In his obscenely tight shirt and jeans, Sherlock looks like a slut desperate for a shag. Without them, he’s touchingly vulnerable, like a nervous virgin, which is even more arousing. John is glad he satisfied his carnal needs to some degree before coming here, or he’d make Sherlock bend over the nearest upholstered ottoman right now.

“Just look at you,” John says slowly. “So very much at home here.”

Naked and not attempting to cover himself, Sherlock stands in the middle of a large Persian carpet, his bare milky-white feet a contrast to its rich purple colour. The dark wood panels in the background further highlight Sherlock’s pale complexion.

His lips are slightly open, his eyelashes fluttering, but he doesn’t respond. He waits.

John walks around him, unhurriedly. Sherlock is a gorgeous sight, from whatever angle, but there’s a detail about his appearance that troubles John rather than arouses him. Every time John catches a glimpse of several scars on Sherlock’s back—some clearly caused by a harsh whipping, some probably left by a knife or other sharp object—he feels a familiar anger welling up in his chest. He’d said he’d forgiven Sherlock for leaving. He’d meant it. But the thought of Sherlock being with someone else during those two bloody years…It still feels like a jolt of white-hot, searing pain.

Logically, John knows he has no reason for jealousy—because this damn well looks like jealousy. They haven’t promised anything to each other after all.

But logic is Sherlock’s trade, not his.

To calm down, John tells himself that on the whole, they are even. Why should Sherlock have been celibate? John had made him into a highly sexualized creature with a penchant for games of a certain type, and of course Sherlock couldn’t stay abstinent. John never asks about his experience—and Sherlock never talks about it. It’s an unspoken rule.

Still, sometimes John wants to do something violent when he thinks about it. Well, something more violent than their usual activities.

“Kneel,” he orders harshly. He considers pouring himself a drink, like Mycroft, but decides against it. It’s better to be sober, or he might get too carried away.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asks.

Sherlock nods, his head bowed, seemingly contrite. Maybe he really is. His arse is already of the right shade, close to the colour of the Persian rug, because John always hands out punishments right after a misdeed occurs, with additional corrective measures afterwards to seal the effect.

“You’re here,” John elaborates, “because you’ve been not good enough. You think it suffices just to lie back and enjoy things being done to you, eh? You think it will do to be passive. Just a recipient. A plastic doll for fucking. No, Sherlock, you’re wrong. You might have forgotten that you ought to please, to show some enthusiasm, but it’s what expected of you. I’m afraid you have to learn the hard way to relish the ability to express your attitude. For being passive, you’ll be punished with _having_ to be passive. From this moment on, you’re stripped of your privilege to make decisions for yourself. You may enjoy—or not enjoy—what’s being done to you, but you have no say in the matter.”

John returns to his duffel bag left by the door and takes out what looks like a leather hood. He’d been very thorough about choosing it.

“I’ll explain how it’s going to work,” he says. “Pay attention. First, I’ll put this hood on you. It comes with a leather blindfold and a ball gag. You won’t see anything and won’t be able to speak. Over the ears, there’s sound proofing. It minimises exterior noise. Don’t worry about breathing, there are two small nostril holes. They might not quite line up with your nostrils, but it should work, you won’t suffocate, just take deeper breaths than normal. But your senses will be almost completely blocked—vision, hearing, smell. There are O-rings on the hood’s collar. I’ll attach a lead to one of them, and you’ll crawl beside me on all fours. I’ll guide you. If I tug at the lead, you go slower. If I smack you with the riding crop—yes, I brought it too—then you hurry up. We’ll walk through the corridor and down the stairs like that, into the cellar. As you might know, there’s a room for special parties down there. The Stranger’s Room. And the guests have already gathered, all waiting. Men only. They will be most glad to see you. Well, not you, personally—they don’t care who you are—but they’ll certainly appreciate your physique, so to say. Mostly your rear parts.”

Sherlock looks up. “What—” he begins.

John touches his lush lips with a free hand. “Ah-hah. You’re not to ask what will happen there. What would be the fun in that?”

But when John takes his hand away, Sherlock speaks up again, desperate to be heard before it’s too late, “John, you once said—”

John gives his mouth a light but staggering slap this time. “Sherlock, shut up. Don’t make me angry. You’ve screwed up enough for today. One more word—and you’ll be in bigger trouble than you are now.”

John doesn’t need Sherlock’s deductive skills to understand what Sherlock wants to ask and doesn’t quite dare to. Once, John had made a promise. He’d told Sherlock he’d never share him with anyone else, not again. But Sherlock must know all too well that it’s John who invents the rules and changes them if something isn’t to his liking.

Two years is a long time. Enough for one to reconsider some things.

Sherlock bows his head again, deflated.

“All right, that’s much better,” John says. “Now, I’m putting the hood on you.”

He carefully adjusts the mouth gag and laces up the back of the hood. Then he threads the removable blindfold strap through the hood’s buckles and gives it a snug pull, so that it completely blocks Sherlock’s vision. The soft leather is pleasant to the touch.

John takes a step back to enjoy the view. It’s predictably pleasing. The hood makes Sherlock dehumanised. Turns him into an anonymous plaything to be pinched, poked, and otherwise tormented.

When John touches Sherlock’s neck to attach the lead to the hood’s collar, Sherlock flinches slightly. Was the touch completely unexpected? Does the hood dampen his hearing so well? If so, good.

John gives Sherlock a light push between his shoulder blades, and Sherlock hastily drops to all fours, grasping the silent command at once. _Good boy_. John leans in to stroke a hand along Sherlock’s back, caressing it, and to pat his reddened buttocks. A muffled sound comes through the gag, a whimper perhaps.

John takes out the promised riding crop and slings the bag across his shoulder—he might need some items from it later. Then he tugs at the lead with his left hand, and off they go. John holds the door open for Sherlock to crawl past it and then guides him along the hallway, keeping him on a short lead and using the riding crop now and then to speed him up. It turns out it’s a bit of a challenge, to manoeuvre Sherlock with both hands occupied while the bag constantly tries to slide off John’s shoulder. Maybe it would have been better not to bother with the lead at all but to take Sherlock’s butt plug out and force the whip’s handle up his anus instead. It could be fun, driving him this way and that, thus impaled. Oh well. Good ideas always come too late.

A wide carpet runs the length of the corridor, so Sherlock probably doesn’t feel too sore scampering naked on all fours. But he must wonder whether somebody can see him right now, a servant or one of the club’s guests. Are they staring openly or turning away? Where are they? It must be getting more and more torturous with each moment, not being able to see or hear anything, the more so because Sherlock is so used to relying on his senses. The only thing he can feel now is the texture of the carpet beneath his hands and knees. It’s not enough.

When they come to the stairs, it’s most amusing, the way Sherlock moves even more timorously, measuring each step, cautious not to stumble downwards. The butt plug must cause him discomfort, rubbing his insides at a different angle as he crawls down the stairs. John doesn’t hurry him until they reach the bottom, so that he doesn't trip up and fall, but after that, the riding crop comes into play again because Sherlock is too slow. Even slower, the nearer they get. John almost has to drag Sherlock forward, encouraging him with heartfelt swats.

Another hallway, another heavy door—and here’s the Stranger’s Room. Does Sherlock try to discern any sounds around him—furniture creaking, low murmurs? Does he wonder how many men have gathered here to watch him, whispering to each other, laughing quietly, making bets? The room has an intoxicating smell of oil, shellac polish, and wax, very masculine, but John doubts that Sherlock is able to feel it. It must be difficult to breathe through the small nostril holes in the hood, let alone enjoy any aromas.

In the centre of the room, in a circle freed of furniture, there’s a long metal bar with hand and ankle stocks fixed solidly in the wooden floor. A necessary piece of equipment set in advance. It looks odd when empty, but strangely, not quite out of place. Dark-stained wall paneling and ceiling tiles, rich upholstery and dim lighting are reminiscent of the old colonial style…and colonies mean slaves.

John drops the bag on the floor, lays the riding crop on top of it, and takes the lead off Sherlock’s collar. Using his hands, he twists and pushes Sherlock like livestock, positioning him so that his legs are on the line of the spreader bar, and roughly shoves them wide apart to secure his ankles first to its opposite ends. When the metal clinks, Sherlock jerks uneasily, but it’s too late. In just a matter of seconds, he’s stuck.

John rubs his back a little to calm him down, as only tactile communication is available for Sherlock at the moment. Then he takes Sherlock by the shoulders and tilts his upper body down, so that Sherlock would lean on one of his shoulders for balance and his arms would go between his legs, for John to secure his wrists to the stock bar too. Sherlock doesn’t resist. Maybe because he’s already shackled anyway. Only John can unlock him now.

It’s a strenuous, uncomfortable position, but Sherlock is lithe enough to hold it for a while. With his arse up high, he’s ready for perusal. His testicles hang low and defenseless between his spread legs. Sherlock must realize how appetising he looks.

Every second in blackness and silence must seem like an eternity as he waits and waits and waits, flinching at every imagined sound. Is John still there, or has he left? Will he watch at least?

The tip of the riding crop caresses slowly along the length of his back, drags over his buttocks, circles his hole, still obscenely stuffed with the butt plug, and taps at his testicles—another feature of interest. Then there’s a pause again.

The first real stroke lands in the crease between Sherlock’s buttocks and makes him cry into the gag in surprise. The skin is pulled taut there, highly sensitive. Unlike Sherlock’s butt cheeks, it’s not crimson yet. All the more reason to mark it. More blows follow—as do Sherlock’s stifled grunts, acknowledgments of precisely measured, accurate aim.

The tender insides of Sherlock’s thighs come into play next, and after that, it’s only logical to go at what’s between them. The riding crop hits Sherlock’s testicles, this time for real. His scream would have echoed through the whole building if not for the gag. It dies down into hushed sobs as the leather fold of the riding crop pats at Sherlock’s upturned backside in mocking reassurance. Sherlock must have braced against the next blow and bit into the gag, for he’s much quieter, but a few more swings in a rapid succession, however moderate, reduce him to a crying mess again, as intended.

Then it’s nothing. Silence. Blankness. No more strokes. Until someone’s leather-gloved hand touches his sore perineum, a finger probing around his distended, ready-for-use hole. It must be John. But why is he wearing gloves?

Sherlock shifts uneasily in his stocks. He’s got a cramp. His nerves are acting up.

Is there shuffling of feet? A crowd gathering around? An insidious doubt grows stronger. No, it’s not John. Someone else. This someone tugs at the base of the butt plug and starts easing it out. Its widest point passes his sphincter agonisingly slow, making Sherlock squirm a little and huff into the hood, and when the thing is finally gone, his empty hole twitches of its own accord, cowardly, dreading some new abuse.

Sherlock’s muscles quiver a little, whether from the strain or apprehension. He must feel so vulnerable now. The gloved hand unhurriedly maps outs the scars on Sherlock’s back, scratches them a little as if trying to erase the faint lines. Then something thin like a blade traces one of them, goes lower, to the small of Sherlock’s back, and still lower…

…And that’s when Sherlock suddenly jerks for real, with all his might, trying to kick, to twist his hands out from the stocks.

“Sherlock, stop that!”

John’s loud order doesn’t seem to sink in. Sherlock either doesn’t hear it, or he’s too lost in his own mind. He keeps struggling desperately, like his life depends on it. He won’t break free like this, he’ll only damage his wrists, but he’s too stricken by panic to understand it.

“Sherlock!” A flash through John’s mind—he’d shouted just like that when he’d seen Sherlock falling.

It’s complicated, unlocking the stocks while trying to hold Sherlock’s raging body down. Sherlock’s ankles are unshackled first. When his right arm gets free too, Sherlock almost manages to twist out of John’s grip. He would have dislocated his arm badly if it weren’t for John’s military training.

The last lock opens, and John, having pinned Sherlock down to the floor with all his weight, starts unlacing the hood. Sherlock is squirming under him futilely.

“Sherlock, calm down, it’s me, it’s all right.”

The blindfold is still on, and so is the gag, but John’s voice seems to have reached Sherlock’s consciousness, finally, for he goes slack and lets John carefully take the hood off. Sherlock’s breathing comes out in ragged, struggling gasps.

“Easy, Sherlock, easy,” John keeps muttering. He finally takes his gloves off and tosses them away. “What the hell got into you? Christ, I could have cut you for real!”

“John?” Sherlock says uncertainly as if questioning the evidence of his senses.

“Yes, yes, it’s me,” John confirms tersely. “You won’t fight if I let you go now, will you?”

Sherlock shakes his head slightly, and John clambers to his feet. A few seconds—and Sherlock, huddled on the wooden floor, dares to prop himself up too and takes a wary look around.

The room is filled with the dim golden light of several lamps along the walls. There are below-ground windows covered with ornate wooden latticework over the long shelves filled with antique books. Tufted leather chairs, a monstrous palm-tree in a basket…

…And no one else around. The room is empty, except for Sherlock and John.

“Oh, you must be wondering where all the guests are. It’s just a trick, Sherlock,” John says, half reassuringly, half triumphantly. “It’s just a magic trick. Your mind, however sharp, seems to be open to suggestions when your senses are dampened.”

Sherlock used to be a master of deceptions. Now it’s John’s turn. He’s picked up a few lessons in mindfucking.

Of course, John is a bit disappointed with having had to stop their play so soon. His plans regarding Sherlock’s private parts had been too elaborate and well thought out not to regret the interruption; there’s a whole bag of gear he’d wanted to try, including anal beads of impressive size. He can still make use of them, but it will be less fun.

At the same time, John is bursting with the desire to taunt, to jibe, to ask Sherlock how it feels to be the one who’s fooled for a change. How it feels to taste his own medicine.

John expects Sherlock to snarl at his own stupidity, at having been so gullible, but the reaction that follows catches him unawares. It takes John a few seconds to understand that Sherlock isn’t just mortified. He’s shaking, shivering uncontrollably.

“Sherlock?”

Still on his knees, Sherlock suddenly leans in and wraps his wiry but surprisingly strong arms around John’s leg, presses his face to John’s thigh, kisses it fervently, again and again.

“John,” he breathes out, and his voice breaks on the name. It sounds like a sob. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” He skims his hands up and down John’s calf in a frantic caress and keeps murmuring into John’s thigh. “I knew you’d promised to never share me with anyone again, but at some point…it became so real…”

John chuckles nervously, somewhat disturbed by this outburst. “Did you think Mycroft would have allowed something like that—you being prostituted to a whole room of strangers?”

“Why would I care for Mycroft’s plans?” Sherlock says bitterly. “I only cared for yours. But it was fine with me,” he adds quickly. “Whatever you wanted, it was fine. If you thought I deserved it…if you enjoyed it…I’d go along with that. Honestly, I would. It’s not that I’ve changed my mind. I haven’t. It’s just—” He backs off and clenches his fist against his mouth, almost bites into it.

John waits. He’s a patient man.

“I always rely on my senses,” Sherlock goes on, his voice low and tight. “I trust the evidence of my own eyes and ears, nothing else. Now, when I couldn’t see or hear anything, when I felt doubt, something happened to me. Something clicked in my head. My mind went blank. I wasn’t here anymore, not with you, not in the club. My wrists hurt, and my arms, and my back, it felt so much like that cell in Serbia—I hung there, shackled to the walls, helpless, pathetic, unable to resist, whatever they did. I couldn’t go through it, not again. I wanted to go home, I wanted it to stop.”

“Serbia? What the hell happened in Serbia?”

Sherlock shrugs stiffly. “I got caught breaking into a military base. They interrogated me. I don’t know for how long, exactly. The light was always on, I lost count of days.”

“Sherlock, who—”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s been dealt with. Don’t worry. It’s all right now.”

“Those…interrogators, did they—”

Sherlock is used to John not finishing his sentences. “You shouldn’t be worried about STDs. I’m clean.”

John hopes it’s a ‘no’ to his unasked question about sexual assault. But even if there wasn’t one, it’s still a shock, to learn that Sherlock had been…tortured?

“We could continue,” Sherlock suggests. He sounds almost pleading. “You could still do what you wanted. I won’t cause trouble anymore, promise. I’m fine now. There’s nothing wrong with me. Just a momentary lapse.”

John frowns, looking down at him in doubt. “Is it what you want? To continue?”

“Yes!” Sherlock says hastily. Too hastily. John might not have Sherlock’s skills in observation, but he’s not stupid. Besides, he’s learned to read Sherlock’s behaviour all too well, having spent so much time with him.

“I don’t think so,” John drawls. “Don’t lie to me, Sherlock. Don’t disappoint me.”

For some reason, words about being disappointed always work on Sherlock. His expression turns into one of dread, and then he quickly lowers his gaze, having understood that he’s betrayed himself.

“I am sorry,” he says again, head bowed, hands now clasped in his lap. A picture of remorse. “I thought you were already disappointed. It’s my fault that we’ve stopped. I just wish to make it up to you. Forgive me?”

It’s been happening too often recently, Sherlock reconciling with being pushed too far.

“How is it different, what _they_ did to you and the things that _I_ do? How is it different if you don’t want it?” John bursts out.

“It’s different because it’s you,” Sherlock says at once, in a convinced tone.

Oh. That's something John doesn’t know how to respond to, so he just says, “Er. I’m glad you…feel that way. But we’re not going to continue, no. Come on, stand up. I’ll take you home, okay? We’ll catch a taxi.”

John was going to walk Sherlock back to the room where he’d undressed with Sherlock still naked, on all fours, and wearing a hood, not to spoil the illusion. But now the plan doesn’t seem to have the same appeal.

“I’ll go and fetch your clothes,” John says. “Wait for me here.”

“No!” Sherlock catches his sleeve. He rarely disobeys like that nowadays. “No, John, please. Don’t go.”

Leaving Sherlock on another verge of panic is clearly a bad idea too. John takes a quick look around. The only option that comes to his mind is a bit of vandalism. There are dark, heavy curtains on one of the windows. John rips one of them down. “Here. You can wear this.”

Sherlock stares at the drapery with distaste, but deigns to take it and wraps the fabric around himself, toga-like. He should look stupid, but he looks stunning instead, as always. There must be something in John’s gaze that gives away his admiration, but Sherlock interprets it in an unexpected way.

“You like me better when I’m dressed. I know my scars might look repelling, but I could try to get rid of them. Cosmetic surgery.” He looks hopeful, waiting for John’s reaction.

“I like you undressed too. Very much so,” John assures him. To be more convincing, he steps closer and slips both hands into the folds of Sherlock’s improvised toga. “And I have some time to prove it.”

He’s not sure that he’s doing the right thing, initiating something sexual, but it’s always that way with him.

***

They burst out onto the porch of the Diogenes Club giggling, John’s hand on Sherlock’s arse again. This time, Sherlock looks happy about it. John had dealt with him in a most pleasing way, without any additional implements. Sherlock had been still sore, but it never stopped him from enjoying himself. The curtain had got a little bit stained; John wonders if Mycroft will have to pay for the laundry. Fortunately, they’d managed to sneak out without meeting him again. Maybe Holmes the Elder is more delicate than he lets other people think.

“I thought I was losing you,” Sherlock suddenly murmurs, tilting his head and nuzzling at John’s neck.

'Well, you were the one who left,' John almost replies, but bites his tongue. They don’t need to go into all that again, do they? A bit of groping on the steps seems like a better option.

Not even a minute passes before Mary parks the car opposite the club, beside a streetlight, and John congratulates himself on perfect timing. He hadn’t even had to text her to say they’d stopped too early and she didn’t have to come and pick them up. Not everything had gone as intended, but they’d finished exactly when planned after all.

Actually, the whole thing had been set up because of Mary. Sherlock still has some problems with her.

On the whole, John considers their arrangement to work surprisingly fine. He’d been unsure if he should tell Mary about his previous involvement with Sherlock. Well, ‘previous’ including the stag night spent in the nick together, but they’d both been drunk and Sherlock totally gagging for harsh treatment. Then John had found out that Mary had her own secrets, so he had decided to take a risk and ask what she might think about...er…playing with Sherlock now and then.

As it has turned out, Mary isn’t much into delivering pain, but she likes to watch when John metes out his punishments, probably because it’s achingly humiliating for Sherlock and she likes it. She’s awfully good at teasing Sherlock, always finding the right words that hit his tender spots, like “Gosh, you’re so slow”, “Why do people still think you’re clever?”, “John will be disappointed”. She’s got an impish sense of humour and a talent for inventing various degrading activities, even more creative than the ones John would think of himself. It’s nice to have…an accomplice. Someone to share his fantasies with. But Mary often complains that Sherlock doesn’t show enough enthusiasm in trying to please her, at least not as much as when he’s with John. This issue had earned Sherlock a trip to the Diogenes Club.

“Was he terrified?” is the first thing Mary asks when she gets out of the car.

“I wasn’t terrified,” Sherlock grumbles petulantly. “I’m never terrified.”

“Fibbing, Sherlock. I’m not John. I can tell when you’re fibbing. Of course you were terrified. Did John whip your little arse well enough for you to learn your lesson? Lower your pants and bend over the bonnet. I want to take a look at your behind.”

Sherlock casts a quick side glance at John, but John doesn’t say anything. They’ve had their fun, so why shouldn’t Mary?

“Now, Sherlock,” Mary orders sternly. She’d come for a little bit of gloating, not just dropping Sherlock at Baker Street and then taking John home.

Sherlock obeys, albeit reluctantly.

“That’s a good boy. That’s a good slut,” Mary praises him in a slightly mocking tone as Sherlock’s usually dexterous fingers clumsily fumble with the zip of his jeans. “Come on, don’t keep us waiting.”

The street is empty, but if someone were to look out of a window of the Diogenes Club, the sight would most certainly catch his eye, and Sherlock is well aware of that. John steps closer, partly to obscure Sherlock’s figure from unwanted spectators, partly to have a better look.

“Legs wider,” Mary commands, in the voice she uses in the hospital, and pinches Sherlock’s bum to reinforce her order. John wonders if he really saw this ruthlessness in her right from the start, and that’s what attracted him. A reflection of himself, in a way.

Sherlock does as told, with his jeans pooling around his ankles, his belly flat on the bonnet, face hidden in his folded arms, so that only the mop of dark curls is visible. He stays obediently still when Mary takes two handfuls of his reddened butt cheeks and parts them, toying with the sore flesh.

“It looks like my husband has made a good use of you,” she comments with a cheeky smile towards John.

John feels himself blush a little. It shouldn’t be embarrassing for both of them, only for Sherlock, and yet it is, something intimate if weird being turned into mere debauchery.

Sherlock gasps when Mary none too gently rubs a finger around his battered anus. “Are you still nice and wet inside? Pity that John hasn’t plugged you again, you look so much better when stuffed. Oh well. At least your behaviour seems to have improved. When we play next time, I hope you won’t fail us again. And that’s just to revise your experience.”

A single spank on Sherlock’s bare bottom rings out loud in the silent street, makes him cry out in surprise.

“Hush now, don’t be childish,” Mary chides him. “Now you may put your pants back on and take your place in the backseat.”

When Sherlock opens the car’s rear door, he lingers for a few seconds, clearly perplexed as to how he should settle there. He’s still too sore to sit on his arse properly. His sluggishness earns him a warning from Mary, “In! Quick! Or you’ll stay here.” Sherlock hastily slides in and immediately starts squirming in an unsuccessful attempt to find a less painful position.

After having put his bag into the boot, John—instead of taking the place next to Mary—slips into the back of the car too, from the other side. “Lie across,” he says. “Rest your head here.” He taps at his lap. It’s a far too generous offer, and it looks like Sherlock is unsure if it’s not another trick. John forcibly manoeuvres Sherlock’s pliant body so that Sherlock finally settles against him with a blissful sigh. Nowadays, it takes so little to make him contented. Just a small promise of tenderness. Sherlock winds an arm around John’s waist, and through the fabric of his shirt, John feels a peck of a quick, almost shy kiss on his chest.

Mary watches them in the rearview mirror, clearly amused.

“Oh Sherlock,” she croons teasingly. “I’ve never thought you to be the cuddly type.”

He isn’t, normally. The only times when he’s clingy and needy are the moments when he’s exhausted and utterly broken down. It shows how far from normal Sherlock is now. He clutches at John’s shirt like it could save him, and John can’t help but remember Sherlock grabbing at his shoulder urgently before he’d collapsed in the hands of the paramedics. “We can trust Mary.”

John still suspects Sherlock had lied when he’d said “we”. John had never been in danger, but as for Sherlock… Mary had taken care to spare his life, but he’d almost died anyway. They never speak about it, like they’d never spoken about the origin of Sherlock scars.

In a flash, John wishes he spent more time with Sherlock alone. Just the two of them, like in the good old times.

Sherlock doesn't live with them, but whenever John and Mary want it, he’s available for their games. And after that they just return to their normal mundane routine. It’s very handy. Sherlock doesn’t mind. But right now John feels unsure about leaving Sherlock on his own.

“I think he’s not…fine,” John tells Mary, and his suspicion grows stronger because Sherlock doesn’t immediately intervene to say that no, he’s absolutely, perfectly fine. So John adds, “Maybe we should stay with him some more.”

“We can’t keep our babysitter waiting,” Mary reminds him, keeping her eyes on the road. “I said I’d be back in an hour.”

“Well, you could go home, and I’d stay with him for a short while,” John suggests.

Mary huffs in response. John wonders if that means she’ll eventually concede, or will she insist on taking him home after they drop Sherlock at Baker Street?

Will it be jealousy on her part if she’s reluctant to let him stay? If so, why? Sherlock is a plaything for them both, so it’s only logical that one of them should make sure he’s okay.

It’s not like John is _sharing_ Sherlock with Mary. There are three of them—partners, lovers, whatever. Of course John spends more time with Mary because they’re married and have a baby. Sherlock had agreed to it, and Mary too. But it doesn’t mean that Sherlock can be neglected when he’s unwell.

Sherlock once had made a vow to never let him down. John hadn’t said the same words back, but for some reason, leaving Sherlock alone now feels like breaking a promise. Or maybe it’s a tiny bit of guilt about his own jealousy and anger.

John knows he should consider himself fortunate that things have turned the way they did, even if there are minor mishaps sometimes. He knows it… But he can’t say he’s entirely happy. He can’t help thinking that something is off. Not with him, not with Mary. Despite their little domestics now and then, they’re alike, they’re both predators, partners in whatever they do. They enjoy what they have in addition to their unexpectedly normal married life. It’s Sherlock who worries him.

John misses Sherlock’s sinister cheerfulness and his snide remarks and self-assured smugness. Sherlock is too composed, too compliant—a shadow of his usual self. It’s as if Sherlock is afraid to test John’s patience, convinced that too many ‘a bit not good’ things will earn him a punch rather than a half-hearted reprimand in public and a mutually satisfying punishment in private. Or, even worse, that John could walk out on him and never come back because he’s got Mary—and it wouldn’t be a problem to find another whipping boy for their mutual entertainment instead of one who's too difficult to handle.

John isn’t quite sure if Sherlock is satisfied with their seemingly perfect arrangement, except for the times like this, when Sherlock snuggles close to him and lets himself be petted and soothed after a particularly challenging ordeal, finally certain that John is pleased with his behaviour. Mary says that Sherlock is fishing for John’s attention. Maybe he is, so what?

John wanted Sherlock not to be dead, and he very much wants him to be alive _now_ , bursting with energy, hungry for action, not simply enduring what life brings him, passively and apathetically. John can’t hold back a thought—is he partially to blame that Sherlock isn’t the way he used to be?

John keeps running a hand through Sherlock’s hair and listens to the soft humming noise Sherlock makes in his throat, a sound closer to purring than groaning. He’s grateful that Mary doesn’t comment on it. At least for a short while, he wants to give Sherlock the illusion that there are just the two of them.

**Author's Note:**

> My [Tumblr](http://tenderlywicked.tumblr.com).


End file.
